


Two Seconds of Christmas

by occludes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occludes/pseuds/occludes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes she envies him, because he has all of Sherlock's belongings to comfort him while she has these moments, and she has these secrets that eat her alive, but she never has Sherlock or any memento of him when he's gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Seconds of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt fill! "Christmas." 
> 
> IloveMollysomuch. And I'm always so sad for her.

Molly comes home to a silent flat with snow caked on her shoes and her cheeks pink from the cold. The outside smells on her clothes usually draw an inquisitive Toby, but today, there is no greeting for her at the door as she struggles to close her umbrella and get out of her coat, while bags of purchased Christmas gifts hang from her arm.

She says, "I'm home," because if she doesn't speak out loud to herself and her cat now and again, this apartment would never hear human voices.

Except someone answers, "Welcome back."

Molly simultaneously drops her bags, swallows a scream, and scrambles for the light switch, casting a soft white glow across the living room, where Sherlock Holmes is seated on the loveseat with Toby in his lap. Once upon a time, Toby wanted nothing to do with Sherlock. For that matter, Sherlock never wanted anything to do with Toby. Now they're seated like that, as though they've been best friends for years.

Molly presses a hand over her heart. "Ohmygod..."

Sherlock raises a brow. "You know, your Christmas decorations rather leave something to be desired." His gaze flicks over to the sorry state of Molly's Christmas tree, which is already losing needles because she forgets to water it.

"Seems a bit silly, doesn't it? Decorating when it's just me." Molly regains her bearings, stoops to gather up her spilled bags. She's trying not to stare at him like she hasn't seen his face in months, even though she hasn't. Trying to pretend like she hasn't missed him, even though she has. "What are you...shouldn't you be...?"

"It's Christmas, Molly. Thought I would drop by. Say hello."

He watches as she deposits her shopping onto the coffee table. She flicks tentative glances in his direction before she says, awkwardly, "Oh. Well...hello."

She's happy to see him. Truly, she is. She's missed the warm lilt of his voice, the unnerving way he studies her in one instant, and sees right through her in the next. But she doesn't for a second pretend to think Sherlock is here because of _her._

Molly sinks onto the other end of the loveseat, leaving no more than a few inches between them. "You want to know how John is."

The way Sherlock's gaze seems to focus, come to sharper attention, is subtle but doesn't go unnoticed. He says nothing. He could ask Mycroft about John's well-being, but Mycroft, Molly suspects, wouldn't tell him the truth. He could even spy on John himself, but such things are risky when Sherlock is trying to convince John—and the rest of the world—that he's dead.

"You know I don't see him much."

"Because you feel guilty. And you're a horrible liar."

"Well...yes."

"But you _do_ see him. You hear about him." Sherlock leans back, one long finger absently stroking Toby's head from nose to the base of his skull.

"Sherlock," she starts, looking down at her hands, because sometimes watching his face is too difficult. "Why don't you go see him yourself? Like you said, it's Christmas."

"Not possible. Not now."

"Then when? He's not okay, you know. He works, and he smiles, and he socializes but I don't think he's sleeping much or eating well." She takes a breath, fumbling with the hem of her shirt. "All the time...he looks so sad."

"John is a soldier. He's stronger than to fall apart over this."

"That doesn't mean it doesn't affect him. You miss him, too."

"Molly." Sherlock levels a warning look in her direction. Molly doesn't finder herself as intimidated by it as she used to be.

"You've lost weight. _You_ look sad. And tired. But mostly sad."

Sherlock nudges Toby from his lap and stands. Molly rises. She wonders if she's pushed too far. She isn't John Watson, which means she can't say everything she wants to say. Not without chasing Sherlock off.

From his jacket pocket, Sherlock pulls out a brown, unwrapped box. "Give this to him, would you?"

She takes it without thinking. "And say what?"

"That you found it in the lab somewhere." He doesn't look at her.

A Christmas present from Sherlock. Likely something that belonged to him, Molly suspects. A gift from a dead man and Molly wonders if it will make John feel better or make him fall apart. Sometimes she envies him, because he has all of Sherlock's belongings to comfort him while she has these moments, and she has these secrets that eat her alive, but she never has _Sherlock_ or any memento of him when he's gone.

Her eyes are tearing over, she realizes, so she keeps her head down and stares at the box like it's the most fascinating little box in the world.

He should be leaving now, except he's not. He's standing there and watching her and—"Molly."

Molly blinks back the tears and breathes deep before lifting her head, just an inch. "Yes."

Sherlock touches his fingers to her chin, prods her face into looking up, teary eyes and all. And his mouth touches to hers, a brief brush of skin against skin and that alone is enough to make her legs weak and she's sure if she doesn't sit down right this second, she's going to fall.

Two seconds.

Sherlock draws away. He says, softly, "Thank you, Molly. Merry Christmas."

Then he leaves her there with a present for John and the feel of him still on her lips.


End file.
